


Four Times Sid Didn't Get What He Wanted for Christmas and One Time He Did

by Lenore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5 Things, Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of holiday fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Sid Didn't Get What He Wanted for Christmas and One Time He Did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mathsupreme](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mathsupreme).



> Many thanks to Linaerys for the speedy beta!

1\. 

The problem with mistletoe, Sid felt, was that it had nothing to do with hockey. If the tradition could only be changed so that you had to kiss beneath, say, a dangling puck, it would be so much better for him. He always knew where the puck was. Mistletoe—well, he never saw that coming. His unfortunate tendency to turn a Christmas-y shade of red whenever he got caught beneath it just made the guys all the more determined to do it. His rookie year, he'd ended up being smooched by half the team. 

This year wasn't looking any more promising. There were still two weeks to go before Christmas, and the locker room had already been transformed into a veritable kissing trap.

It didn't help Sid's mistletoe alertness level that today's practice had gone badly. The team was sluggish and sloppy, just the way they'd been during their last two losses. Something just wasn't clicking. Sid went over it in his head as he left the ice, trying to figure out what wasn't working and more importantly how to fix it. 

He was so deep in thought by the time he reached the locker room that he completely forgot to be on the lookout for the green menace. The moment he passed through the door, the guys broke into a chorus of hoots and wolf whistles. Sid let out a resigned sigh. He knew without even glancing up what that meant.

Geno, who had been hard on Sid's heels, apparently had no clue. He seemed even more confused when Jordy called out gleefully, "Get it, G!" 

Gonch offered an explanation in Russian, with a roll of his eyes that implied North Americans had the stupidest customs imaginable. Geno didn't say anything, his expression completely unreadable. 

"You don't have to," Sid told him quickly. 

"You really do," Flower corrected. When Sid glared at him, he said, "What kind of luck you have if you break tradition?"

Sid hesitated, because maybe Flower had a point even if his expression was suspiciously innocent. Bad luck, Sid firmly believed, was nothing to mess with. It was clear, though, that Russians didn't do the mistletoe thing, and maybe Geno minded the kissing? Since their first shy handshake on Mario's front porch a few months ago, they'd had an easy camaraderie, even if they did do most of their communicating through pantomimes and exaggerated facial expressions. Sid would hate for anything to mess that up, especially some stupid locker room prank. 

He stalled, fretting over what to do. Geno, it appeared, felt no such indecision. He tilted Sid's chin up and bent down to press their mouths together. This kiss wasn't like any of the other dreaded mistletoe kisses—not the slobber fest that Max had inflicted on him or the loud buss to the forehead from Army or the chaste peck on the cheek he'd gotten from Gonch. Geno kissed seriously, thoroughly, taking his time, as if kissing Sid was as important as hockey and he meant to give it his best effort.

"Never Been Kissed" was not the secret title of Sid's autobiography, no matter what Army liked to tell anyone who would listen. So Sid honestly couldn't explain why he stumbled back from Geno when the kiss was done, lips buzzing, heat simmering in his stomach and spreading up his cheeks. He wasn't the only one who seemed a bit stunned. The locker room had gone unnaturally quiet, the guys staring, their mouths hanging open in surprise.

Geno smiled slyly. "I best."

This brought on snorts of laughter and more than a few protests of _no way, I'm the best,_ and the familiar post-practice locker room routine resumed. Sid showered, changed and exchanged see-you-tomorrow's with the guys just as he always did, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling of being caught off balance. None of the other mistletoe kisses—not even the slobbery ones—had affected him that way. It didn't make sense.

Sid pondered it the whole way home, through his post-practice carb loading and two chapters of the book he was reading on Patton's leadership style. It was only as he was settling into bed for the night that he finally realized what the problem was. 

He hadn't minded Geno kissing him. At all. What bothered him was that Geno had only done it because of the mistletoe. 

 

2\. 

Sid didn't consider himself to be an especially fussy person. He realized he was probably alone in this opinion. To his mind, though, he just had things he liked and things he didn't, the same as everyone else. He was in favor of hockey, Canada, and peanut butter. He frowned on clowns, anything that disrupted his routine, and losing—and now he had to add making gingerbread to that list.

It had all seemed so easy when Nathalie had walked him through it. He'd helped her mix the ingredients, and she'd rolled out the dough, and together they'd cut out the gingerbread men. He didn't know what he'd done wrong with this batch—or how much flour he could keep adding before the cookies turned out as hard as rocks—but the gingerbread was still more goo than dough. Every time he tried rolling it out, it stuck to the counter, the rolling pin, his fingers, and anything else it could attach itself to. 

Sid blamed Flower. Because, well, it was all Flower's fault. 

"You're wearing the 'C' now. You make the cookies," Flower had piped up when they'd been divvying up assignments for the holiday potluck at Army's house. 

"How does that even make sense?" Sid had complained, but Army had already written it down next to his name.

Nathalie had offered to stay home today to supervise, but Sid had insisted that he could handle it by himself. Clearly that had been an error in judgment. Geno was picking him up in little more than half an hour, and he didn't have a single gingerbread man to show for himself. He dusted the dough with another liberal handful of flour and gave the rolling pin one more shot. The doorbell rang while he was elbow deep in gingerbread, and he darted an anxious glance at the clock on the stove. Either it was very broken, or Geno was running really early. 

Fortunately there was always a Lemieux around to answer the door, so he didn't have to pause his wrangling of the dough. If he stopped now, he felt sure that the dough would actually win.

"Sid," Geno called out from the hallway.

"In here," Sid called back. "I'm not ready," he added defensively.

Geno came over to the counter, craning his neck to peer over Sid's shoulder.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Sid said, even more defensively. 

Actually, it was entirely possible that it was worse than it looked. He'd finally gotten the dough rolled out, but it seemed stiffer than he remembered when he'd made the cookies with Nathalie. They might need to stop at the bakery on the way to Army's house. 

Geno's mouth turned up at the corners. "I help?" 

"You want to cut out the gingerbread men?" 

Geno nodded eagerly, and Sid handed over the cookie cutter. Geno concentrated carefully, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. When he'd cut as many cookies as he could and arranged them on the baking sheets, Sid gathered up the scraps of dough and rolled it out again. Somehow it seemed easier this time around, and Geno went to work with the cookie cutter once more. They finished up the rest in no time at all.

"We good team," Geno declared as Sid popped the baking sheets into the double ovens. 

Empirically this was true, so there really was no reason for Sid to feel as ridiculously pleased by the comment as he did. 

The scent of warm sugar and spice quickly filled the air. "Smell good," Geno said, looking hopeful and hungry.

"They could be awful," Sid felt the need to warn him.

Geno shook his head. "Sid best. Cookies best too."

There was nothing particularly logical about that argument, but Sid felt his cheeks pink at the compliment anyway. When the oven's timer buzzed, he pulled the trays out, trying not to look as concerned as he felt.

Geno promptly volunteered, "I test."

"You have to wait for them to cool," Sid insisted.

But Geno had already plucked one off the tray and popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before declaring, "Mm. Best."

"Really?" Sid's voice lilted up hopefully.

"Best," Geno reiterated with a broad smile. He must have meant it too, because he reached for another cookie. 

Sid batted his hand away. "They're for the party."

"I help," Geno said sulkily.

Sid couldn't argue with that. "Okay, but just one more."

Geno grinned happily and snagged his cookie. Sid found a plastic container in the cupboard, lined it with waxed paper, and as soon as the cookies were mostly cool, he transferred them and pressed the lid into place. If they left now, they could still make it to Army's on time. Being late—this was another thing on Sid's list of dislikes.

"Ready?" he asked Geno.

"No."

Sid frowned. "What—" He drew in a sharp breath when Geno reached out and brushed a thumb along his cheek. 

Geno was so close, his eyes warm and fond, his attention focused so intently on Sid that it gave him a funny little flutter in the pit of his stomach. He'd been careful not to let himself think about that kiss beneath the mistletoe; it was just a team prank, no reason to dwell. The sense memory came rushing back now, the touch of Geno's hand on his face, the confident press of his mouth. Sid licked at his lips and tilted up his chin and waited for—

"Flour," Geno said. 

It took Sid a long, confused moment to make sense of that. 

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." He swallowed down a feeling of disappointment, because that was just ridiculous. 

Geno smiled and picked up the container of cookies. "Now we go."

The gingerbread men were a big hit at the party. 

"Delicious, and you don't even have third-degree burns," Flower marveled. 

"That because I help," Geno declared. He looped an arm across Sid's shoulders, smiling, and said in a more confidential tone, just for Sid to hear, "Good team."

Sid managed to smile back. It was true. They did make a good team. He told himself that was all that mattered. 

 

3\. 

There was a right way to do things and a wrong way, Sid firmly believed. This applied to everything, even hanging ornaments at the Dupuis' tree trimming party. 

"You're supposed to put the lights on first," he said for the fourth time, a slight whine creeping into his voice. 

Duper fixed an amused look on him. "Have you been watching HGTV again?"

Sid pressed his mouth into a thin line, which of course gave him away entirely. 

Flower raised his eyebrows. "You have a house now?" 

Sid could feel himself flushing. "I'm going to start looking." Probably. One of these days. "Anyway you don't have to own a house to watch HGTV. It's very relaxing."

"No, this is relaxing." Max pressed a glass of eggnog into his hand.

Sid sniffed at it suspiciously. "What's in here?"

"Cheap booze if Max bring," Geno said, deadpan. 

"I bring nothing but the best booze. You're just too Russian to appreciate it," Max insisted. "Anyway, what do you care?" he told Sid. "You're finally legal, and we have three days off. So drink up."

Sid took a sip and wrinkled his nose. 

Max made a considering face. "Probably needs more nog." He produced a bottle and topped off Sid's glass. 

This did nothing to improve the taste in Sid's opinion, but it seemed rude not to finish the drink since it had been poured for him, and then the more he had of it the less disgusting it seemed. That was always the problem alcohol. It certainly didn't help matters that every time he insisted that the ornaments needed to be spaced evenly around the entire tree or tried to fix the garland Max declared that he needed more eggnog and brought him another glass. 

By the time they finally settled into the media room to watch "Christmas Vacation"—the only holiday movie worth seeing, Jordy had insisted—Sid was already slurring his words and listing to one side. He might have tipped over completely if Geno hadn't taken the spot next to him and propped him up with an arm around his shoulders.

"This one has had _way_ too much," Tanger said, sounding amused. 

Sid tried to object, but the words came out a whiny garble, which just made everyone laugh at him. 

"Sid okay," Geno said, loyally. "I take care." 

That sound nice, even if Sid wasn't sure that he should think things like that, and he let himself lean more heavily against Geno. Geno squeezed his shoulder, and that felt nice, and Sid drowsily watched the movie, not really following the storyline, just floating along, warm and content. Maybe he fell asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew the movie was over and everyone was staring at him. 

"Okay, next year no one is allowed to ply Sid with alcohol," Duper declared in his stern fatherly tone. 

"Ply is such a strong word," Max objected, earning eyerolls from pretty much everyone in the room. 

"You can stay in the guest room," Duper told Sid, like a concerned parent.

Sid frowned. He realized that he couldn't drive home like this, not when he could barely keep his eyes open, and it was nice of Duper to offer, but Sid really liked to sleep in his own bed when he wasn't on the road. 

"It okay," Geno spoke up. "I take Sid home." He was watching Sid fondly, as if he knew exactly what Sid had just been thinking.

"Thanks," Sid murmured.

Geno smiled softly. "Told you I take care."

The whole bundling up process took far longer than usual. Pulling gloves on in particular proved challenging—Sid couldn't really feel his fingers—and Geno had to take over. At last, they set off down the front walk to Geno's car, Sid stumbling even with Geno's arm wrapped firmly around his waist. 

"Text me when you get him home," Duper called after them.

In the car Geno turned the heat up and the radio down low. Sid slumped in the passenger seat, boneless and heavy lidded, watching the landscape blur past, comfortably aware of Geno beside him. He knew it was probably just the alcohol coloring his perception, but he honestly couldn't remember ever feeling this content. 

At Mario's, Geno managed to get him inside and upstairs without anyone seeing him in his current state, which Sid really appreciated. 

"Come on," Geno said, guiding Sid into his room and over to his bed. "Need get undressed. I help."

By "help" Geno clearly meant, "do most of the work." Sid was fairly useless, his fingers slipping on his buttons, hands getting tangled up in the sleeves. Eventually they got him stripped down to his boxers. Geno urged him under the covers, but told him, "No sleep yet. I bring water. You drink."

Sid nodded groggily and spent the few minutes Geno was gone yawning and rubbing his eyes. 

"Here." Geno pressed a glass into one hand and aspirin into the other. 

Sid obediently took the pills and finished the water and then yawned some more. 

Geno said, "Bed now." 

He eased Sid back against the pillows and pulled up the covers to tuck him in. Sid was so sleepy, but he forced his eyes open and glanced up at Geno to say thank you. Geno was looking down at him, warm and affectionate, and suddenly there was so much Sid wanted to tell him: that Geno made sense in a way that no one else ever had, and how much Sid loved playing hockey with him, and also that he was pretty sure he just loved him in general, and that he wanted Geno to stay forever and ever. 

Geno rested a hand on the top of his head. "Sleep nice."

Sid's eyes drifted closed before Geno even finished the sentence. 

In the morning—or the early afternoon to be more precise—Sid woke blearily, briefed considered getting up, and then hid his head beneath his pillow in the hopes that he might fall back to sleep. Fragments of memories from the night before drifted back to him, and he fuzzily remembered thinking that he might love Geno, and suddenly he wasn't sure if he'd only thought it or if he'd actually said it out loud. _To Geno_. He sat bolt upright. 

Fuck.

Before he could decide what to do—whether to come clean if Geno asked him about it or pretend it had just been drunken rambling that meant nothing—his phone rang. It was Geno. 

"Sid," Geno said, his voice so close and warm sounding in Sid's ear that he shivered a little. 

"Hey, Geno." He wasn't sure what to say next, and the pause dragged on uncomfortably. "Um. Did you, uh, want something?" He held his breath, not even sure what he was hoping for.

Geno laughed lightly. "Just make sure you okay. Captain die in middle of night not good for team."

Sid let out his breath. That really didn't seem like Geno knew anything, did it? No, it really didn't. 

"Oh. Uh, I'm fine. Thanks. For calling. And for last night. Thanks, you know, for everything," he stammered out. He never got tongue tied around Geno, and he really hoped this wasn't how things were going to go now that he'd figured out how he felt.

"You sure you okay?" Geno's voice had turned concerned.

"I'm fine," Sid said firmly. "I just woke up, and I'm kind of out of it, and I guess a little hung over." 

Geno made a sympathetic noise. "Maybe not let Max pick drinks next time."

"Never again," Sid agreed. 

"You think you want food later?" Geno asked. "I take you out, get you greasy diner breakfast for dinner. Make you all better."

Sid bit his lip and considered the invitation. He wasn't so sure about the greasy food—he'd already broken his training regime enough with the eggnog—but he would like to see Geno. A lot. Maybe too much. That was kind of the problem.

"I think I'm just going to hang out here," he said at last. "But thanks."

"Change mind, you call me."

"Okay," Sid said, and then he offered again, "Thanks. Um, bye."

It was for the best, he knew, that he hadn't spilled his feelings to Geno in a drunken ramble. A team was a delicate thing, interconnected in deep and mysterious ways, and any weirdness between him and Geno would most likely affect everyone. If there was a faint little voice in the back of Sid's head that kept wondering what might have happened if Geno had found out, if he returned Sid's feelings—well, Sid was very good at ignoring anything that might get in the way of hockey, little voices included. 

 

4\. 

The living room in Sid's parents' house looked exactly the way he remembered from every childhood Christmas: tree in the same spot, the old battered star atop it, stockings hung from the mantle, one for each of them, hand knit by his grandmother with their names embroidered on them. Sid should have felt homey and comfortable—it _was_ his home after all—but since he'd arrived yesterday, he'd just kind of drifted along, at loose ends. 

"Negotiations going okay?" his dad kept asking, assuming Sid's restlessness had something to do with the lockout. 

Sid was keeping up to date on what was happening of course, and he liked to believe an agreement was close, but that wasn't what was making him restless. 

His mom didn't bring up hockey, but she did keep giving him worried looks and offering him hot chocolate. 

When the hovering got to be too much, he told them, "I've got some last minute wrapping left to do," and he went up to his room to enjoy a little quiet and the lack of parental concern. 

His computer sat open on his desk, and for a moment he considered Skyping Geno. Then he did the math on the time difference. Late morning in Cole Harbour meant it was evening in Russia, and Geno probably wouldn't be home. He didn't celebrate Christmas—the KHL didn't even take a day off for it—but Geno's team wasn't playing tonight. He was probably out having fun. 

A row of presents sat lined up on Sid's bed, all carefully wrapped and only a little mashed from his suitcase. He'd gotten his mother a necklace with a heart made out of diamonds because he always got her jewelry. For his dad he'd gone with a golf vacation (again) because his dad was nearly impossible to buy for. Taylor was getting new hockey gear because that would make her face light up when she opened it. 

The last gift—well, that one he wouldn't be able to give out tomorrow. 

Usually Sid hated shopping. He disliked the noise and crush of crowds, and if anyone recognized him then he'd have to stop for pictures and autographs, and the idea that someone might Tweet a picture of whatever he had in his shopping cart always made him feel weirdly self-conscious. But somehow he'd stumbled across this little store in Lawrenceville, a seemingly random mishmash of antiques, art and crafts. 

It had been virtually empty when Sid had gone inside, quiet in a peaceful, library kind of way. An older woman sat behind the counter, her head bent over a book. She'd smiled when he came through the door but then went back to her reading, leaving him to browse. 

He'd spotted them almost immediately, sitting on a shelf: two hand-carved penguins, alike enough that they clearly belonged together, but still somehow different, individual. Sid couldn't take his eyes off them. 

"You have good taste," the woman told him, noticing his interest. "The artist is Russian, and she combines elements of Russian folk art with a modernist sculpture aesthetic. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

Sid had nodded. "I'll take them." 

She'd wrapped them for him, and he'd taken the box home, imagining how he'd give the penguins to Geno as a welcome back present once the lockout was over, a reminder that whatever might happen they'd always be teammates together. He'd kept the package on his dresser, waiting impatiently, and still Geno was there and he was here. There was no real reason to bring the package along to Nova Scotia. Maybe he'd nursed some farfetched hope of a Christmas miracle, although even then Geno would have headed back to Pittsburgh, not to Cole Harbour. When Sid had been packing, though, he just hadn't been able to bring himself to leave the penguins behind. 

"Are you moping?" Taylor frowned at him from the doorway. 

"No!" he answered reflexively. "Just—"

Taylor didn't wait for him to finish. "Come on. You and me, backyard hockey time. Gear up and meet me outside in five."

She disappeared before he could argue his way out of it, not that he would have tried. Hockey, even the backyard variety, was exactly what he needed right now. By the time he got downstairs, Taylor was already doing stretches, her mask propped up on top of her head. The cage was set up at one end of the yard where it always was, the grass trampled smooth from years of practicing. Sid went through his own warm-up routine, and when he was finished Taylor took her position in net and declared, "Bring it, bro."

Every time they played together, which was not nearly often enough, Sid marveled at how much Taylor had developed as a player. Shots that would have gotten past her last Christmas bounced off her pads now, and she'd obviously done a lot of work on her glove saves. They fell into a groove, and it wasn't the same as being on the ice with the Pens, but at least Sid finally felt at home again. 

"Who wants a hot chocolate break?" their mom called out after they'd been out there for what must have been an hour or even two. 

It distracted Taylor just enough for Sid to sneak a backhander past her, which earned him a filthy look. He shrugged. It was Christmas, and she was his little sister, but he still liked to win. 

Their mom had brought out a tray with two mugs, and she set it down on the patio table. "You both looked good at there," she said with a smile and went back inside, leaving them to their cocoa. 

They leaned against the railing of the deck and held their mugs close to warm up and didn't say much as they took sips of chocolate and marshmallow.

Taylor finally broke the silence. "You should just tell him, you know."

Sid's shoulders went stiff, although he guessed he really shouldn't have been surprised. If anyone in the family was going to figure out that his unsettled mood wasn't entirely lockout related, it would of course be Taylor. 

"It's not—" Sid started, but he wasn't sure what he was even trying to say. 

Taylor cut him off before he could decide. "Don't even, bro. This is me, remember?"

Sid let out his breath. "I can't tell him."

"Why not?" 

"Maybe he doesn't—you know." He stared down at the mug in his hands.

"Yeah," Taylor said. "But maybe he does."

"Sidney." Their mom appeared in the doorway. "I heard your computer making that noise. I think someone's trying to call you on it."

"Wonder who that could be," Taylor said under her breath, smiling.

Sid rushed upstairs although of course it might not be Geno--Flower and Tanger did Skype him sometimes. When Sid sat down at his desk and checked, though, he found that the missed call had in fact been from Geno. He called back, and suddenly there was Geno grinning at him. 

"You join new team?" Geno asked, nodding his head at Sid's old Rimouski Oceanic jersey.

"Backyard game against Taylor."

"Not need to ask who win. Tell sister congratulations."

Sid stuck out his tongue, which just made Geno grin harder. "I _was_ going to tell how amazing that goal was that you scored against Atlant, but now I'm not so sure you deserve to hear it."

Geno beamed delightedly. "You watch?" 

"Just some highlights," Sid said quickly. Was it weird that he followed every one of Geno's games? Maybe that was weird. 

"Atlant only so-so team," Geno said, "but still feel good to score. What you do for holiday?"

"We're just kind of hanging out today. Tonight we're going over to see my mom's cousins, and tomorrow we'll open presents and have Christmas dinner here. I, uh—" He hesitated, and then said in a rush before he lost his nerve, "I got you something, and I was going to wait until the lockout was over to give it to you, but now—I'm just going to unwrap it and show you, okay?" 

He reached for the package before Geno could make an answer and carefully undid the tape and neatly pulled the box free of the wrapping paper. He lifted the penguins out and held them up for Geno to see. "They were made by a Russian artist," he said, feeling suddenly nervous that Geno might not like them, and he babbled out all the details that the woman at the shop had told him. 

Geno stared, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Sid," he said in a choked voice.

"You really need to come home," Sid blurted out. 

"Yes," Geno said simply.

Sid's throat went tight, and a long pause dragged out. 

"Happy Christmas, Sid," Geno said at last, his voice soft.

"You too," Sid told him.

 

1\. 

Christmas Eve morning, and the scent of warm sugar and spice filled the air. Sid settled onto a stool at the kitchen island and went over his to-do list. Presents for the Lemieuxs? Bought and wrapped. Calls to his family? Already made. Gingerbread cookies to take along to Mario's tonight? Coming out of the oven in—he craned his neck to check to the timer on the oven—seven minutes. He had nothing left to do but linger over his coffee and maybe check out the TV schedule to see what bowl games would be on later. 

"I'm sorry, honey, but I don't think we're going to be able to make it to Pittsburgh for Christmas this year," his mom had called last week to tell him. 

His dad's back had been acting up on him, and even though he kept insisting that a couple of hours on a plane wouldn't kill him, his mom had put her foot down. Sid had mailed their gifts last week, and hopefully the Canadian postal system would get them there on time. 

The phone rang, and Sid picked it up absently without checking the number, assuming it would be somebody in his family. Instead he got an earful of, "Tis the season to cheer up morose Russians, and you're the captain, so I nominate you for the job."

Sid frowned. "Nealer?"

"I'm serious here. G's sulking, and it's Christmas. Something needs to be done."

Sid had seen Geno just yesterday, and he'd seemed perfectly fine. "Wait. Did he get bad news about the injury or something?" he asked, his forehead pinching with worry.

"No, no," Nealer said. "He just gets cranky when he can't play. Well, crankier. You should go be jolly at him or something. I tried, but he likes you better."

Sid thought about calling Geno to make sure it was convenient if he came over, but if Geno was feeling morose he might not agree to company even if he really did want it. So Sid packed up some cookies once they were out of the oven—gingerbread was Geno's favorite—and headed out. 

Geno looked surprised to find Sid at his door, although not displeased. Or particularly morose.

"Nealer said you needed cheering up," Sid offered by way of explanation. 

Geno snorted. "Lazy always think I in bad mood when I tell him he not funny." He stepped back to let Sid in, and his eyes lit up when he saw the tin. "You bring cookies?"

"Yeah, um." He handed them over. "Merry Christmas."

"Is now." Geno smiled happily. "I make tea. Come."

Sid followed him down the hall to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching Geno take out a teapot, put on the kettle, fix a tray with cups and a plate for the cookies. 

"We drink tea on sofa," Geno decided once the brew was steeping, and he led the way to the family room.

Sid took a seat on the sofa and glanced over at the curio. The penguins he'd given Geno last year were prominently displayed on the center shelf. Geno poured their tea and handed Sid his cup. Sid leaned relaxed against the cushions and sipped his tea while Geno dove into the cookies. 

"Mm," Geno moaned in the back of his throat at the first bite, and kept on making noises as he munched away.  
It was kind of distracting. Geno sounded _really_ happy, like orgasmically so, and Sid glanced around, his cheeks burning, searching for some topic of conversation. He spotted a Santa hat tossed onto one of the chairs, but there was something green attached to it. He squinted. The green thing looked suspiciously like a sprig of mistletoe. "What is that?" 

Geno rolled his eyes. "Lazy give me. His idea of present." He reached for the hat and tilted his head, giving Sid a considering look. "It look pretty on Sid." 

It really, really wouldn't, but before Sid could protest, Geno was already angling closer to put the thing on his head. 

"Why does something like this even exist?" Sid wondered. He'd spent too many holiday seasons trying to dodge stealth mistletoe to understand why anyone would want it hanging from their hat. 

"Don't know," Geno said, his voice suddenly gravelly. "But it look good on you." He stared at Sid, and the _way_ he was staring—Sid licked his lips, suddenly nervous. 

Geno groaned, and he curled a hand around the back of Sid's neck and tugged him gently forward. Their last kiss—their only kiss—was years ago now, but Sid remembered it in precise detail: the warm puff of Geno's breath against his lips, soft pad of Geno's thumb moving along his cheek, the shivery, too-hot sensation in the pit of Sid's stomach as Geno's mouth moved surely on his. This kiss felt just like that, only now there was tongue, lots of tongue, and Geno made more noises, a combination of sigh and growl that had Sid clinging to him, trying to get even closer. 

Sid didn't _think_ this—them—had anything to do with the mistletoe, but it still seemed like a good idea to make sure. 

"You don't have to," he told Geno, breathless as he pulled back from the kiss. 

"No," Geno agreed. He pulled the hat from Sid's head and causally tossed it aside, took Sid's face between his hands and kissed him again. 

Everything kind of blurred together after that—the heat of Geno's body and the demands of his mouth, his hands moving everywhere, all over Sid's body—and Sid found himself straddling Geno's lap, panting heavily, fists clenched in Geno's T-shirt. 

"Sid," Geno moaned, running his palm up the inside of Sid's thigh, rubbing his cock through his jeans. 

Sid's eyes flew closed, and he bit his lip. God, that felt good, so good, but—

"It's not just—" he tried to tell Geno. "I want—"

Geno nodded, staring up at Sid, his eyes dark and wanting. "Yes, we play good hockey and be together forever and ever."

The words sounded oddly familiar, and it took Sid a moment to place them. That was what he'd been thinking—or drunkenly confessing, apparently—the night he realized he loved Geno. "Why didn't you say something?

Geno met his gaze, almost shyly. "You drunk then. I wait for you to say when sober, but you not, so I think maybe you not really want." 

"It's all I want," Sid told him, very earnestly. 

Geno broke into a bright grin and tackled Sid back onto the sofa. There was a lot more kissing and one fairly embarrassing call to Mario to make Sid's excuses for missing Christmas Eve dinner, and then they finally found their way up to Geno's bedroom.

It had only taken them seven Christmases to get there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Four Times Sid Didn't Get What He Wanted for Christmas and One Time He Did](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247002) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




End file.
